Another Army

Ho, heather bell and hyacinth.  The little dog

Eats bread.  The lion and the unicorn eat crumbs.

Ho, heather bell and hyacinth.  The sound of drums.

Two little kittens eat their cake, and from the bog

The bogy comes.

O what a time to be!  I know that I don’t know,

And I can run, and I can hide, and I can climb

Inside the magic myth of milk and nursery rhymes,

And on the infant coos a meaning I bestow

Most of the time.

In fall the maple rainbows shine then crack and peel.

In winter white my mittens stiff the snowballs frame.

In spring the woodland walks are never twice the same.

In summer Momma makes my very favorite meal

Before the game.

The crayon box is dumped out on the floor with zeal

To trim my bike for speed.  We must weave silk from rags.

A masterpiece, this crafted scrap of paper bag –

I tape it on – a coat of arms, a simple seal,

A freedom flag.

Another day turns night.  Sweet sleep comes floating by

With extra fluffy bread and jam.  But something’s wrong.

The twinkle stars are marching past the moon in song;

They carry saws.  At dawn I wake with crimson sigh

To cry, “It’s gone!”

A round old man with two glass eyes the book of strings

Unbinds.  He saves the first few pages for the zoo,

Then leaves the rest on hooks, for manikins to chew.

He murmurs to me, “Some day soon you’ll see these things

The way I do.”

Now life goes on as life is wont – all wound in acts,

But I fall down a lot.  It’s hard to tie my shoes.

I do my chores and read some, when I’m in the mood.

I clean our little room and give to dogs and cats

And shadows food.

They grind me dawn till dark.  So close they sheer the lamb!

So sharp they turn the plow!  Will twice they break the bough?

With time I yield and sorely heaving take the vow.

It sure is gone forever. Hard, grown-up, I am

A Dexter now.

We’re issued yellow pencils sporting five sharp points,

And if we choose to hate them, we may freely switch

To plastic ball-point pens and scissor blades, and pitch.

We know the whole foundation.  We won’t disappoint

Them in the ditch.

The general of the choosing hears that I am coarse.

“Yes, I’m a bit unhappy with my mount, it’s true.

She pulls a little right.  Perhaps she’s thrown a shoe.”

He stares at me and bares a bitter brow, “The horse

You drew drew you.”

In secret, Rabbit takes me tip-toe through the snow

To room below with incense and a box bedecked.

He whispers soft, “It holds the jewel we must protect.”

“How do you know it’s really in there?”  He says low,

“I never checked.”

Victoria and I and Wyatt Earp on foot

Survey the tulips.  Old man mullah builds the fort.

At night I ask, “We know foundation’s every wart,

But who can know sure its foundation?”  So they put

Me on report.

The general of the questions rousts me out at dawn.

“These lyrics that you speak – the words, they don’t repeat.

Please bring me a translation, the next time we meet.”

I say, “Man, everything I’m sayin’ is standin’ on

Its own two feet.”

A caravan of buses through the alley pours. 

Sweet voices call, “You’re all alone!  Be freedom’s bride!

Come out!  Switch sides!  The fresh air taste, and with us ride!”

This disenchanted Dexter opens cellar door,

And steps outside.

A Sinister I am now.  Let the essence bid

The manacles of boundaries farewell and touch

The sky.  I am issued four erasers and such

Provisions as I may require, but ever rid

Of its warm clutch.

Magellan, my new friend, says, “Trust me.  Listen close,

Meridians I have crossed, and yes I have perhaps

Misnamed an ocean, but foundations can’t be trapped

In specified coordinates on cold erose

Cartesian maps.

We’re glad when Tigger springs for lunch without the bun,

And when he takes the jewel for piercing in his nose

He says that he’ll be careful:  if it breaks or blows

Away then we can always sit and watch the sun

Or smell a rose.

I go out on patrol with orders not to miss:

“Erase the enemies of peace.”  I breathe the smoke

With some new kind of mullah.  Baseballs fill his cloak.

We hear the blood of Dexters hit the drains and kiss

The face of hope.

The kid beside me has a TV for a head.

He plays the evening news then clicks and turns away.

The backup meter maid, between commercial breaks,

Recites tonight the list of everyone who did

Not die today.

I know now all the roads arrive at summit blue,

But hope there is no substance to the rumors odd

Of screaming sounds when highways enter tunnels broad

And dark.  I pray to God it never happens to

This path I plod.

With Peter Pan we perch on cliffs above the waves.

He kicks a clump and stones go tumbling to the sea.

He says he set them free.  “But friend, you must agree,

Already dead they were and even now the slaves

Of gravity.”

Lieutenant Derrida constructs the wooden crates

To hold our excess cats.  The rest play seek-and-hide

With freedom on the mats, and for awhile abide

To solemn take the time to calculate the dates

Of Eastertide.

Unconscious Nefertari left the river dried.

She buys up acreage on the clouds behind our backs.

But skewed without and hollow in, my spirit lacks;

So like the lady floating dead, from side to side

The mirror’s crack’d.

Magellan says he’s thought of changing course.  Will I?

“But where?”  I pray.  Response unspoke, he points.  I see

A rusty varicoloured bus on tracks and skis

In old MacDonald’s lot, another army by

The golden key.

Magellan takes a step.  I follow with a chill

That steals my breath.  If only it were here to nurse

This sudden bode of death.  They brazenly converse

With Dexter dross as well as us, my fears fulfilled

And even worse.

We reach the heap, and I anticipate disaster.

Magellan steps inside.  Twelve voices call, “Join us!”

“You’re not too careful where you lay the fork,” I fuss.

“We’re ambidextrous.  Whip you sore the wrong bad master.”

I board the bus.

The driver hands me a fish sandwich and inquires,

While writing in the ashtray sand, “You hear me, son?”

I understand; I touch the sandwich to my gums.

I’m suddenly filled up with fearful white desire.

“It soon will come.”

A tingling haunts my side.  The memories compile.

Then wobbly bus from nesting space sans warning springs

With rattle and lurch.  Gray haired children roam and sing

And play hand church, and from each neck a chiral vial

Of Ishik swings.

Young Jimmy’s popping peanuts getting set for camp

Which will begin at seven-thirty on the dot,

And Gumby's back from Zurich, tied up in a knot.

I see so many smiling limber creatures tramp

This bumpy yacht.

As noble Alexander checks the balances

For burrs, I in this fine conveyance ask the crew,

“So fight we fearless now for freedom in the true?”

And Mister Madison replies, “For freedom?  Yes,

Indeed we do.”

No Sinisters are left.  No Dexters plead their rights.

Instead, Melchizedek and Daedalus agree

To cribbage Tuesday night.  Son lacking ancestry,

And father far from son, they find each other quite

Good company.

I say, “So that’s the way.  Let Libra write the checks.”

But Themis beams with cheer, “It’s not what you expect.

Don’t think that she could rule here.  We’re more circumspect.”

Then Jochebed, confiding soldier dear, elects

To interject:

“Exactly all but one of us were in the wind

Mere drops – a few the stuff of rainbow flesh to see

Unfolding secrets for the dust beyond the tree,

But river irriguous beckoned.  Now befinned,

We chase the sea.”

Wise Janus rubs his beards and speaks, “The bane and slip

Within the balance is a global warming theme. 

The poles dissolve and thus relinquish in the steam

Their own existence.  Whence they coax, with lukewarm sip,

The vomit scream.”

Sophrosyne, dern star of Socrates’ ballet,

Glissades unveiled near.  “Dark you drew the lines, then hard

You rubbed them clean.  You used to ride your boulevard

In color.  Paint again!”  She hands to me my gray

New member card.

It faithful grows with pressure Yin is bearing from

Her brother bright – their confrontations never stop,

But bound together always, like the sticks of chop,

They’re casting darts into the shadows, hoping some

Of them will pop.

Enchanted, Robin holds the jewel in covered jar.

I ask him, “Can I see it?  Is it without spot?”

“The filter screens but need not certain spoil the pot.

Court not the speck, for save the wind this is by far

The best we’ve got.”

In radius of my view, behind the green sleeved one

Of Ascalon, a newer kind of mullah rees

The mystery, at long last in discovery

Of waters Al-Khidir, uncovered by the son

Of Mister G.

Some fellow fusiliers from perilous straits and seas,

Fair Thetis and the Argonauts clap furiously

For Phineas Barnum’s thumb and electricity

Precisely spinning all the plates on poles of free

Simplicity.

A jumpy armadillo usher makes his bow

Then down the aisle he leads – O how at home inside

This rumbly shandrydan I feel.  It seamless glides

With grace as far as suiting socket will allow

To nudge my guide,

Who digs in pockets for the glasses on his brow,

“I used to be a leper – could not swat the beam,

Nor pray nor form an angel, in the frosty cream.

I bore the mark of Watahantowet, but now

I really dream.”

I take a seat in back where Jack is to his fond

Friends reading beads of amethyst – hyaline, numerous.

They laugh throughout his tale of yet another bus.

I smile myself and know we share things quite beyond

The humorous.

It waxes full and strong enough for truth to bear,

Yet I reflect on relics, tares in grain of new

Condition.  Now beside me sits in bear skin shoes

That fit just right, a fair haired girl with torch aflare,

“There’s work to do.”

As Goldilocks is melting half my smoke alarms

I gaze, soul’s redevivus symmetry so high,

Upon this recent alar emanation spry

Which well they likewise ardent wear.  They have two arms,

And so do I.